


i thought the sky was bound to fall

by takingyournarrative



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: But Also Some Angst, Flowers, Fluff, M/M, i miss spring and i want them to be happy, its just soft, just in the beginning, seasonal-depression type stuff, springtime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:33:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28331661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takingyournarrative/pseuds/takingyournarrative
Summary: May came and lilacs blossomed behind fences and on street corners. Michael said they were nothing next to the flowers outside the city, and when Gerry shrugged and said “I wouldn’t know,” he looked at him with an expression bordering on affront. That weekend Gerry woke to train tickets on the nightstand and Michael awake uncommonly early, the smell of something sweet cooling in the kitchen.in which ✨spring✨
Relationships: Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley
Comments: 15
Kudos: 34





	i thought the sky was bound to fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hypnoshatesme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hypnoshatesme/gifts).



> title from crow’s wing by nancy kerr.  
> spring/summer fics are the most reasonable christmas gift.

Winter that year had been a harsh one. Grey days and blood dull in the unlight, the weak filtering of the sun through blinds and the way it didn’t care and didn’t even seem to try. Michael’s hands steadying him in the doorway, the clean soft fabric of the bandages, the sleepy whispers against his cheek in the dead of night — none of them stuck. Everything slid off like the feeble descent of what little snow they had from the rooftops. 

He was tired. Bloodloss and exhaustion forming hollow places around his bones, and January had one bony hand in a vice grip on his ankle. Michael was good to him, and patient, and even if it never quite broke the fog — never quite  _ fixed  _ things like he wanted them — it was undeniably nice to feel loved. He leaned into the scent of vanilla on Michael’s sweater and breathed in flowers from his hair and thought that maybe the warmth of his skin was the warmth of the sun. That was okay. That made things easier. 

Still, it had been hard. Books to track and creatures to fight or kill or lose to. The kitchen floor was stained rust-brown and Michael’s hands had started to shake more with every successive injury. The cold didn’t help — he was tense and it stitched itself through his wounds, ribbons of ice pulled taught in skin that didn’t want to heal with the way he kept shivering. 

_ Take my jacket _ , said Michael, and he didn’t protest, let himself be wrapped in something warm and brightly-colored, and it felt like an embrace against the chill.  _ Take my hand _ , said Michael, and his fingers were warm even in the dead February air.  _ Come here _ , said Michael at night, and he brought himself willingly to bed where he shuddered in Michael’s arms until enough warmth had soaked through his skin to melt him just a little. It was easier to sleep, at least, with Michael there. The bed was warm with him, and Gerry on his own ran cold. 

He woke up to Michael’s fingers brushing over his brow, pushing aside the hair that had fallen into his face overnight. It was an exquisite feeling — he loved it, loved the way it made him feel seen by choice, like Michael wanted to look at him. And oh, it was nearly impossible not to gasp when he blinked open his eyes, because Michael was lit from the side by the rising sun, and it was soft orange-gold on his face where his freckles had almost faded with the winter. His hair dripped with it, like honey, like oranges, like molten gold. And he was whispering — “good morning, lover, it’s Spring” — and he sounded so  _ light _ with it. 

It made Gerry feel light too; for the first time in months, that levity in Michael’s voice was something he could believe. Tangible, sweet, and he grabbed hold of it and smiled in the prismatic dawn. 

It was easier. With the daylight lingering later and the cold creeping back to crystallize around the edges of the months it was easier to take Michael’s hand and feel it under his; easier to fight nimbly and come home scratched instead of broken. 

The hollow places filled in and he watched Michael’s eyes flood with sunlight every morning. The air started to smell of rain and flowers, and soon Michael opened a window and let April bleed into the apartment. Gerry started rising early to cook, awake again with the sunrise. Michael slept late as ever, and Gerry delighted in watching him appear in the kitchen doorway, disheveled and flush-faced with sleep, lit by the sun cascading through the windows or maybe just by the way he smiled, tired and radiant and almost overwhelmingly adoring. 

May came and lilacs blossomed behind fences and on street corners. Michael said they were nothing next to the flowers outside the city, and when Gerry shrugged and said “I wouldn’t know,” he looked at him with an expression bordering on affront. That weekend Gerry woke to train tickets on the nightstand and Michael awake uncommonly early, the smell of something sweet cooling in the kitchen. 

“Michael?” he called into the other room, and there was a gasp and the clatter of metal and then there was a blur of blond curls and pink sweater and Michael was sitting on his legs, taking his hands and helping him sit up. 

“Good morning! We’re going on an adventure.”

There was that note in his voice, somewhere between shyness and conspiracy, and he was smiling like he couldn’t help it, wide and gap-toothed and dimpled and it was too early for this, he was so beautiful and Gerry’s heart couldn’t take it. 

“I— where to?”

“Come  _ on, _ ” and Michael was off the bed and tugging him up, pressing kisses to his cheeks and vanishing again to the kitchen. He was alive with energy, springtime and honey in his veins or crocuses at his fingertips or maybe it was just love. It didn’t matter; it was infectious, and Gerry was grinning and shaking his head and scrambling to get dressed. 

Michael started chattering as soon as he appeared in the kitchen, and it was all Gerry could do to keep up as he rambled that he had the weekend off work and he knew Gerry didn’t have any Leitners to hunt, and he thought wouldn’t it be nice if they could get out to the country for a day or two, because Spring was finally, properly here and he hoped Gerry didn’t mind the spontaneity but he had made sure the train tickets were refundable and they could always plan for another weekend — he was hovering on the knife’s edge of nervousness and excitement, and Gerry couldn’t help but wonder at him. 

“Michael! Michael. Yes.”

Michael broke off and looked at him in blank surprise for a moment, and when he registered the words he sighed and Gerry wanted to live in the sound of it. 

“Fantastic,” Michael said, rambling calmed at last, and Gerry loved his chatter but this was good too: the fevered excitement drained out of his face, settling into contentment. He held out his arms and Gerry came to them willingly, pressed himself into Michael’s embrace. 

“I love you,” he mumbled into Michael’s sweater, and Michael kissed the top of his head and said it back. 

The world was budding green and soft outside, dewdrops gathered on the trees and the tops of cars, and even the city didn’t seem so unclean as it usually did. There were birds again, their short trilling songs echoing from the tops of buildings, and it felt a little like coming home. Everything was different under the sun, the air shot through with clear silver veins and the promise of months of growing, of living things that crawled beneath the hard-packed soil all winter finally emerging, pale and hardy, into the light. 

The world buzzed outside the windows of the train, grey and brown falling away to green and yellow and blue as far as the eye could see. Gerry drank it in like water, each new splash of color or puddle reflecting the sunlight a balm to the parts of him the winter had worn away at. He could feel Michael watching him — not looking out the window but watching his face and the way the color was returning to it, more so for the knowledge that he was being seen, and it was good — good to feel so loved, so chosen, so known. His hand was in Gerry’s, nails bitten short and the edges of his fingers calloused from gripping pencils. It felt perfect, relaxed and comforting and reassuring. 

Better still was the place the train stopped — miles of meadow bordering a forest, and Gerry waiting for the train to pull away before pulling Michael close, pressing their foreheads together. “Can I kiss you?” he mumbled, and felt Michael smile, nod slightly against his forehead before pressing his lips to Gerry’s. The world fell away for a moment, and everything was softness and sweetness and Michael’s hand cradling the back of his head, and then it was back and bright and the air was crowded with flowers. 

Michael picked flowers as they walked and Gerry watched idly, his long fingers twisting the stems as though it were second nature. He did it without thinking, rambling to Gerry about nothing in particular, until he tied the ends together and placed a flower-crown on Gerry’s head. 

“Oh —” and Gerry loved that, the way he gasped as though he’d never seen him before, like maybe Gerry was a revelation — “oh, you’re beautiful. You’re perfect, Gerry.” 

He wasn’t, of course, but he knew there was no expectation behind the words and it felt good. Good to know Michael had seen him in all his wretched imperfection and found his goodness enough to balance it. It had been hard to believe in his own adequacy. It was easier now. 

“I don’t know how —” he said, and Michael laughed. Sunlight shattered by the leaves in a forest, spilling reckless over the moss. 

“I’ll teach you. Or you can just —” he reached around Gerry to pick a cluster of lilacs from the nearest bush and stuck them into his hair with a shrug. “The curls will hold them.”

“Right. Sit down.” He put his hands on Michael’s shoulders and guided him to the ground, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Wait here.”

He was off around the periphery of the field as far as he could go, gathering blossoms until his hands were full, turning every once in a while to look at Michael, who was watching him with his chin rested on his hand, visibly amused and clearly delighted. When he returned he poured the flowers into Michael’s lap and moved to sit behind him, gathering Michael’s mass of curls behind his back. 

Straw-blond hair and lilacs — sugar-white and pale purple — and little wild roses and sprigs of minute yellow flowers and a hundred colors, a chaos that Gerry arranged carefully, until he let go and Michael fluffed his hair back over his shoulders. “Thank you,” he said, and it was ridiculous because he hadn’t so much as  _ seen _ himself, and he was  _ divine _ . A nymph, a reveler, a quiet spirit twisted in a web of flowers. Gerry felt himself blush. 

“Thank  _ you _ , I think,” he mumbled. “Prettyboy.”

Michael laughed again. That laughter, clear as rivers rushing down from the melting mountains, sharp like citrus, something Gerry could feel in his heart for the first time since summer. 

The sun was back. The forest was humming with harmless waking things. Nothing had ever mattered more than this. 


End file.
